I folded my arms, restraining my wince at the dull throbbing of my—luckily—quickly healing stomach. “I know you’re in construction, so this isn’t really your specialty, but I actually need to be in this part of the kitchen to bake.” I pointed to the floor.

“I’m gonna do the heavy lifting, you’re gonna tell me what to do,” he said.

I stared at him in shock. “First of all, I don’t think a jar of flour is going to be considered heavy lifting, and second of all… what?”

He sighed loudly. “You’re gonna sit and rest and tell me what to do. I’ll do the mixing or whatever. That way you’re still creating but not pushing yourself too hard.”

Rowan’s tone brooked no argument.

I wasn’t really in the place to fight him because, yes, I was tired and sore, and because I was shocked as shit at this turn of events.

“Sit,” he ordered.

Still shocked, I rounded the island to do just that.

“Now,” he walked to the sink to wash his hands. “What are we making?”

I bit my lip, debating whether I was going to be easy on him with some cookies or brownies or really make him work.

“Lemon meringue pie,” I decided with a grin. “Let’s see if those muscles can be delicate enough for a light and airy meringue.”

His eyes flared with hunger. “Oh, cupcake, I can be delicate when I need to.”

My mouth moistened, remembering how long it had been since Rowan was inside me.

Too fucking long.

“Barstool, now,” he barked.

I jumped, hopping to his command. Then I settled in for the show.

* * *

I didn’t think that a man baking could be sexy. Then again, I’d never seen a man baking. I’d never seen Rowan baking. Moving around my kitchen as I instructed him how to separate the eggs, when to add the flour and how much. What folding something tepidly meant.

His muscles flexed as he worked the mixture with the wooden spoon, an adorable wrinkle appearing between his eyebrows as he concentrated.

Throughout this process, I’d become more and more enchanted with Rowan and his movements. He was detailed. Careful. Not at all chaotic like me. He cleaned any spills straight away, he inspected the cup of flour to ensure it was level. He did the dishes as he went.

Not that this should’ve been surprising. Rowan was measured, controlled and sure in everything he did.

“You’re so precise,” I acknowledged, resting my chin in my hands.

He glanced up at me. “Well, consider it a side effect of the job. You’re not precise in the military, someone gets killed. You’re not precise building houses, the roof comes down.”

“Right,” I breathed as he bent over to put the tray in the oven.

His ass looked great in those jeans. More than great.

We had not had sex since before the hospital. Obviously.